


but i'm hungry and hollow

by luciferinasundaysuit



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferinasundaysuit/pseuds/luciferinasundaysuit
Summary: His voice is full of fire, and all Steve can think is, I want to burn.





	but i'm hungry and hollow

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Wishbone" by Richard Siken.

 

> We pull our boots on with both hands  
>  but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do  
>  is stand on the curb and say _Sorry  
>  about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine._
> 
> I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.
> 
> \- "Little Beast," Richard Siken

 

Steve’s not drunk yet, but he’s been drinking. He’s stretched out on the hood of his car, looking up at the sky over the quarry. 

It’s cold out for late spring, but he’d forgotten his jacket. He takes another pull from his bottle of Jack. Maybe it’ll keep him warm. 

He lies there trying to recognize constellations, feels the cold metal against his back. He loses track of time, but it’s not like anyone’s waiting for him at home. 

He’s got a plan. Get good and drunk, crawl into the car, sleep until he gets sober, go home in the early morning. He likes having a plan. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

For a few minutes, the quiet brings him peace. Then he hears the roar of a car engine, gravel being thrown up, muffled music playing. Great, he thinks. Just fucking great. The last thing he wants is company.  

He opens his eyes, squints until he can make out the car coming closer, then lets out a loud groan. It’s Billy’s car. 

The only thing he wants less than company is Billy Hargrove’s company. Billy Hargrove, who threatens children. Billy Hargrove, who beat the shit out of him. Billy Hargrove, who hassles him every single basketball practice. Billy Hargrove, who’s mean and sharp and fucking beautiful.  

Steve hates him. Or, he wants to. It’d be easier if he didn’t fucking look like that. 

Drinking, smoking, driving fast, sneaking into second story windows, fighting monsters with a baseball bat. Steve’s always wanted the things that could hurt him, and, well. 

Billy already has. 

The Camaro pulls up right next to Steve’s car, because of course it does. The car door swings open and out steps Billy, cigarette in his mouth, boots crunching the gravel beneath them. He leans up against the side of his car, maybe two feet away from Steve, takes a long drag off his cigarette. Blows smoke in Steve’s general direction. 

Steve holds up his middle finger, and Billy smirks.

“Am I dreaming or is that you, Harrington?” Billy asks. 

He looks Steve up and down, and Steve swallows hard. He suddenly feels vulnerable, splayed out on his back like that. He sits up, gets to his feet.  

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “You gonna hit me with another plate if I say it is?”

Billy drops his cigarette butt to the ground and grinds it under his heel. His eyes meet Steve’s, and they’re intense, alight with something Steve can’t name.  

Steve thinks of the ocean the time his parents took him to Florida, the way the water in the Gulf sparkled like emeralds. 

“Nope,” Billy says, making an obnoxious popping sound at the end.

Billy stays with his back pressed against his car, giving Steve a little space.  

Steve knows this probably makes him a fucking sucker, but he believes him.  

Billy’s an absolute bastard, still, always, but Max says he hasn’t gotten into a fight since New Year’s. He hadn’t believed her at first because he’d seen Billy with a few bruises, but Max had insisted, then refused to answer any questions about the bruising, so.  

Steve doesn’t know what’s going on with Billy, with Max, but he knows it’s nothing good. 

He runs his hand through his hair, taps the bottle of Jack against his leg.  

“Yeah, Hargrove, it’s me,” he says. “Don’t cream your pants.” 

Billy laughs, a dirty, filthy thing. “You keep saying shit like that, Harrington, I’m gonna start thinking you’re sweet on me.”  

His eyes flash, dangerous. 

Steve curls his empty hand into a fist, feels his fingernails bite into his palm. It almost lets him suppress the shiver down his spine. He’s not sweet on Billy because Billy’s an asshole, but. Well. He could’ve been. Another life. Another boy. One who looked just like Billy, moved like him, sounded like him, but wasn’t so goddamn mean. 

“You wish,” Steve says, as confident as he can manage.  

He brings the bottle of whiskey to his lips, takes a pull from it.  

He doesn’t take his eyes off Billy, but Billy doesn’t take his eyes off Steve either. Billy licks his lips.  

“I ain’t that hard up yet, King Steve,” he says, but his voice sounds weird. Brittle. Not as biting as it should be.

Steve sighs. He shouldn’t stay here.  He shouldn’t talk to Billy, absolutely shouldn’t look at him, definitely shouldn’t look at him like _that_. It’s a bad idea.  

He’s gonna do it anyway. 

“Gimme a smoke?” he asks.

He’s expecting Billy to sneer and say something laced with poison, but he doesn’t. He pushes off his car and walks over to Steve, leans against the Beemer.  

“Trade you for some of that,” he says, nodding at the bottle in Steve’s hand. 

Steve holds it out to him. Everything feels a little hazy, a little slowed down. Billy’s hand brushes against Steve’s as he takes the bottle. He turns it up and drinks. Steve shouldn’t watch his throat work. He does.

He _wants_ , and he fucking hates it. He doesn’t want to want this boy, this beautiful angry boy with mystery bruises who beat Steve bloody on the Byers’ kitchen floor and left him with a scar at his hairline. 

Since when does Steve get what he wants, though? He doesn’t want to have nightmares, doesn’t want to be constantly terrified something’s going to happen to the kids, doesn’t want to spend every night alone. He doesn’t want to alternate between panic and feeling nothing.  

That’s why he’s out here in the dark with a bottle of whiskey, trying to fill the empty places. Wanting Billy feels better than emptiness, and Steve can’t fucking stand it. He reaches over and grabs the bottle back. Billy sloshes whiskey down his front. 

“What the _fuck_ , Harrington?” he says viciously, stepping closer to Steve. 

His voice is full of fire, and all Steve can think is, I want to burn.

He reaches into Billy’s shirt pocket and steals his cigarettes and lighter. He knows it’s going to piss Billy off. Hopes it will. He’s not disappointed. 

Billy shoves Steve back against the car door, fists one hand in his shirt and tightens the other around Steve’s wrist. 

“You got a fucking deathwish?” he asks, an inch from Steve’s face. 

He smells like cigarette smoke and cologne and alcohol, and he’s warm against Steve’s front.  

Steve wants so fucking badly to _feel_ , something, anything, so he sets his jaw and stares Billy down. He licks his lips, nervous, and from this close, he can see Billy track the movement. Billy’s fingers tighten in Steve’s shirt. 

_Oh_ , Steve thinks.  

“So that’s why you fucking hate me,” he says. 

He knows he should leave it alone, knows Billy’s going to deny and lash out and punch Steve in the face. At least someone will be touching him.

“The fuck do you mean?” Billy asks. 

He tightens his grip on Steve’s wrist. 

“You hate me ‘cause you want my dick, Hargrove,” Steve spits out. 

Billy moves lightning quick, slamming Steve backwards and pressing his forearm across Steve’s throat. The bottle hits the ground, the cigarettes and lighter following. Everything smells like whiskey, and the night air is so cold against his skin. Billy’s burning hot up against him. 

“I’ll fucking kill you, Harrington,” Billy spits out.  

His eyes are wild, desperate. Steve knows that look. The “boys who like boys are dead boys” look. Steve shoves at Billy’s shoulders, but Billy keeps his hand tight on Steve’s shirt, keeps his arm across Steve’s neck.

They struggle, pushing back and forth. Steve stomps on Billy’s foot, and Billy shoves him back, smacking his head against the window. 

“Goddamnit,” Steve grits out. “Just fucking do it. Hit me, motherfucker.” 

He elbows Billy in the stomach, closes his eyes, waits for the blows to rain down, but instead, Billy fists both hands in Steve’s collar and presses him backwards, hard, until they’re flush against each other. 

Steve opens his eyes, and Billy’s right there, no space between them. Billy’s eyes are like hot coals. He wraps his hand around Steve’s throat, tightening until Steve gasps. Steve presses forward. He doesn’t want to get away. He wants to be destroyed. 

“Hit. Me,” he hisses. 

Billy squeezes Steve’s throat, and Steve arches into his hand, thinks, this is it, do your worst, at least pain means I’m alive, fucking _hit_ me. 

What Billy does is worse. 

He loosens his grip, moves his hand to the side of Steve’s neck.  

“So it’s like that,” Billy says, low, dangerous.

“Like what? Just fucking do it, man. Or are you too much of a little bitch?” Steve taunts. 

Billy growls and surges forward, but instead of hitting Steve, he presses their mouths together, rough and biting. 

Killing Steve would have been kinder. He kisses back, tangles a hand in Billy’s hair. Billy groans, kisses Steve harder. Steve feels his chapped lip split, tastes the copper tang of blood. His body sings. 

Then, suddenly, Billy’s gone. He takes huge steps back, leaves Steve cold and panting and bereft. 

Billy spits on the ground. He reaches down and snatches up his lighter, leaves the whiskey-soaked pack of cigarettes.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” he asks. 

Steve pants, chest heaving. “Everything.” 

Billy stares at him. Steve feels it like a touch. 

Steve licks his lips, tastes the blood. 

“Get out of here, Hargrove,” Steve says. 

He’s not sure if he means it. He thinks maybe he doesn’t. A different time, a different world, and he’d want Billy to stay. 

“Fuck you,” Billy says. 

He strips off his jacket and throws it at Steve’s chest. Steve just barely catches it before it hits the ground.

“So you don’t fucking freeze to death, you son of a bitch,” Billy says.

Then he turns on his heel and gets in his car. He’s gone before Steve catches his breath.  

Steve watches his tail lights until they disappear. He shrugs on Billy’s jacket and lies back against the hood of his car. He’s cold. Angry. Horny. Embarrassed. Confused. Furious.  

He’s alive.

 


End file.
